


take me to church

by starkravingcap



Series: make this place your home [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, church, steve finds a home, tony is his home, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkravingcap/pseuds/starkravingcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a little church on 51st, nestled on the corner behind a wall of trees that stand stunted and short, leaves sparse on their branches no matter what time of the year. It’s made of grey brick and black shingles, and it has windows that reach for the sky, tall and slim and shimmering stained glass. There are three of them like that, all different images, all different colors, but Steve’s favorite is the one with the face of the Virgin Mary. He likes the church because of these things, because of its smallness and its quaint appearance, the artistry on the old windows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me to church

**Author's Note:**

> for katherine.

There’s a little church on 51st, nestled on the corner behind a wall of trees that stand stunted and short, leaves sparse on their branches no matter what time of the year. It’s made of grey brick and black shingles, and it has windows that reach for the sky, tall and slim and shimmering stained glass. There are three of them like that, all different images, all different colors, but Steve’s favorite is the one with the face of the Virgin Mary. He likes the church because of these things, because of its smallness and its quaint appearance, the artistry on the old windows.

On one corner of the building, there’s a brick with a date marked into it, and Steve’s learned that this is the day that the church was built. The numbers are etched into the stone and the crevices are filled with black paint. _1941_. Steve knows that year very well, remembers the way that the country had shaken as it marched into war after Pearl Harbor, how his friends and his fellow Americans had joined the Allied powers and bared their teeth against the Axis. That year had shaken America’s faith. It had shaken his faith. 

He’s glad for this little church, built at the height of such horrifying violence, a little speck of hope gleaming like a lighthouse on a pier. 

Steve tries to go to mass every Sunday, barring any unforeseen events. He’s not always lucky. Between keeping New York safe and trying to manage living in Avengers Tower with five other super-whatevers, it’s not always guaranteed that he’s going to get any day off at all. But he tries, and he figures that’s what’s going to count in the long run. 

It’s cold and windy and rainy when he trudges through the mud and into the church, his jacket wrapped tight around his middle. It’ll be winter soon, and he loves the snow very dearly, but the cold is something that Steve thinks maybe he can live without. Inside, the church is warm and dimly lit, candles flickering at the pulpit, and Steve knows he’s missed mass, but he likes being there anyway, sitting in the middle of the pews with only himself and the stained glass windows. 

He slides into the wooden bench, knees bunched up to his chest, because these pews definitely were not made for super soldiers, and puts his head down. At first, when Steve had started coming here, he’d tried to disguise himself with those glasses and that hoodie, and when he was feeling particularly shy, he’d wear that ball cap – but outside only. The congregation wasn’t stupid. They knew who he was, and eventually Steve had felt so at home there that he’d dropped the disguise and been himself.

It’s calming, he thinks, sitting there with his head down, listening to the wood creak and moan under the wind and the rain. It’s nice to be alone with his thoughts. He doesn’t get this kind of peace as often as he’d like. 

Steve’s sitting there with his head in his hands, mouthing some kind of wordless prayer to someone he’s not even sure is listening when the door to the church opens. He knows this because suddenly he can hear the howl of the wind, the way the rain batters the pavement of the street beyond. Steve doesn’t look up, just keeps his head down, offering the newcomer the same peace that he has, the peace that he needs. He doesn’t realize there’s a presence next to him until he can feel the warmth beside him, radiating into his skin. He looks up. 

It’s Tony, wrapped in a black wool coat and a scarf, his hair blown every which way on his head. The hollows of his cheeks are red and chapped, and Steve wants to reach out and warm them with his hands, but he stops himself. Tony stares at him, the expression on his face unreadable. 

“Hi.” Steve says, because it’s all he can think of.

Tony doesn’t say anything at first, and Steve looks at him carefully, trying to gauge the situation. They stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of them sure who’s going to break the silence. Steve’s planning to say something when Tony lifts his arm, crosses himself lazily, and flops down in the pew next to him.

“This is where you go every week?” He asks, and he tries to keep his voice quiet, but it’s not exactly in his nature to be anything other than loud, “You know, Cap, I expected something a little more exotic, maybe something with a certain _je ne sais quoi—_ ”

“Tony,” Steve cuts him off, drawing his eyebrows into thin lines, “You’re being very loud. This is a holy place.”

There’s a brief moment in which the genius blinks owlishly, eyes wide and brown and framed by thin black lashes. He nods ever so slightly and turns his head, facing the empty pulpit and the burning candles behind it, and he tips his head down to match Steve’s. 

Steve turns back to Tony suddenly, facing him with a look that’s a strange combination of accusation and confusion. He presses his lips together firmly to get himself to stop talking, but it’s a futile effort, because he says it anyway.

“What,” he’s whispering, to be polite, “have you been doing? Have you been following me?”

“The things you accuse me of,” Tony shakes his head, a look of playful betrayal scrawled across his features, “Appalling, Steve, really, your lack of blind faith in me is something we’re going to have to discuss, I don’t think it’s healthy for the team dynam—“

“Tony.”

Tony’s still got his head down, but he opens his eyes and looks at Steve through the corners of them, looking a little like a guilty child. 

“It’s kind of hard to not notice when you’re not around,” he says eventually, and Steve can’t tell if his cheeks are still red from the cold, or whether it’s something else, “Not to mention there’s surprising less technological failure in the tower every Sunday, which I’m not sure if I should dread or anticipate.”

A smile forces its way across Steve’s face, “Something to do.”

“Sure, but I’m getting tired of having to recalibrate your computer screens every time you make them go upside down by accident.” 

“You say that like it happens a lot, Tony,” Steve says, and he drops his elbows into his lap, clasping his hands together. They’ve got their moments, the both of them, where they can be like this with each other, playful and calm and undemanding, “And I’ll have you know that I am a lot better at all of this than what you and Clint seem to think.” 

Tony laughs, and it’s a nice sound, not hollow like his public laughter, but full-bodied and soft and simultaneously both the happiest and the saddest thing Steve’s ever heard. He rubs his hands together in his lap and looks down at the carpet of the church. It’s blue with little flecks of grey, not ugly, but warm. Home. 

“Why are you here?” Steve asks after a while, his voice muted still, eyes back up and watching the way the flames flicker dangerously at the wicks of the candles behind the pulpit. The glow makes the stained glass windows glimmer as though it’s midday, colors and shapes vivid and sharp like they’re being hit by the sun. 

“You leave every Sunday,” Tony starts, and his voice has lost that remarkably scathing sarcastic note that it usually carries, “And you don’t tell any of us where you’re going. Not a soul. Why?”

It takes him a moment, mostly because Steve isn’t used to having to explain himself around these people – his teammates. He mulls it over in his head for a little bit, considering his words before he speaks. There’s a lot he could say, if he thought about it longer, if he gave it time. 

“It’s nice to be on my own,” he tries, but the words feel strange on his tongue, like the opposite of what he wants to say, “To get away from it all. It’s nice here. Peaceful.”

Tony knows he’s lying, because he gets that look on his face that Tony only gets when he _knows_ something. His eyebrows knit together, and he blinks a little, and his lips press into a straight time. But despite everything that Tony is, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call him out, just sits there and nods like they’re the words he wants to hear.

“I get it.”

Something pulls at Steve’s chest, and he wants to look over to Tony and take in those eyes, those wide eyes that are constantly searching, and tell him how out of place he feels. He clenches his fist. He _could_ tell Tony. It would be easy to just open his mouth and tell him that he doesn’t belong here, not in New York, not in Avengers Tower, and certainly not in this time; but there’s the church, and it’s a little bit new and a whole lot like home, _his_ home. He wants to make Tony understand. 

“You lost, Cap?” Tony says, and Steve reels like the genius has suddenly developed telepathy. 

Tony proffers a tight lipped smile at the wide eyes he gets. Nods. Looks down at the carpet. They’re mechanic movements, robotic in nature and performed with tense jerks of his muscles. He rubs his hands together, like they’ll spark a fire, and puts them in his lap.

“How’d you know?” Steve asks, and he’s a little surprised still, despite himself. 

There’s a brief pause in which Tony looks at the altar and blinks, face blank, “We’re all a little lost, Rogers. No one knows exactly where they are.” 

And it’s wonderful, because this is Tony, of course it’s Tony, and beyond all of his bravado, of course he would be so quiet and calm and absolutely _unlike_ himself. Steve smiles a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks down, keeps looking down, like he has been this whole time. 

“You come here because it’s home?” He asks, and Steve thinks about that, too.

“Seems a lot like it, sometimes.” 

Tony smiles at him, a real smile, lips and teeth and crinkled eyes. He slides his hands down along his thighs and breathes in a little, straightening his back. They’ve been leaning forward for so long Tony’s spine hurts, and he knows in moments like these that he’s not as young as he used to be.

“You’ve got a home,” he says, and he says it with such sincerity that it makes Steve sit up and turn, blue eyes wide and questioning, “They’re all waiting for you back in the tower, you know.” 

Steve considers this, and maybe Tony is right, maybe that ugly tower in New York is his home – it’s nothing like his childhood, not quaint or cozy or small or soft in the rain and the wind, but it’s something. And he looks at Tony and the sharp line of his jaw and the way the candlelight catches his eyes, and thinks that maybe this is his family, too.

He could get used to that.

Steve realizes that he’s been staring at the side of Tony’s face for far too long to be considered normal, so he looks away, up to the stained glass Virgin Mary. He follows the lines of her face, the mosaic pieces of glass, and he knows it like a puzzle. 

“Do you believe?” He asks Tony when he thinks he can speak again. The genius shifts a little in his seat, and Steve can see from the corner of his eye that Tony is smiling again. He might have to mark this down in the history books, because this is the most he’s seen Tony smile in a long, long time. 

“In God?” Tony’s voice is a raw, rough thing, cracking with uncertainty that Steve is sure he spends too much time trying to mask, “Not really my style.”

Steve nods, because he’s tired of people arguing about faith. Things are different now, and he understands, just like he’s always understood, and some people believe, and Tony does not, and that is the way that the world should be. 

“I think I’ve prayed,” Tony says suddenly, and it startles Steve from his thoughts. He offers Tony his best questioning look, “Once. In Afghanistan.” 

He doesn’t push. He just nods. 

“We should get home,” Tony says, and his voice is quieter, somehow, gentler, “They’re waiting for us.” 

They leave the little church on 51st. When they get home, everyone is crowded in the kitchen around Clint, who’s frying up a strange combination of vegetables and meat that Steve has never so much as considered, but is more than willing to try. It’s good, because Clint’s food is always good. 

Tony picks a movie, something easy and funny, and they all curl up on the furniture and the floor, nestled together like birds in a nest. Tony’s next to Steve on the floor, curled in on himself like a little ball of caffeine deprived madness, eyes closed and jaw slack until his mouth forms a little ‘o’. He’s asleep by the opening credits, and Steve resolves to make him actually _sleep_ – they’ll work their way up to ‘sleep more often’ one day. 

He looks out the window and says a little prayer, still unsure whether it’s being heard, and then Thor lets out a boom of laughter and Tony jumps against him, clutching his arc reactor like there’s no tomorrow. Steve watches Tony toss a pillow, and suddenly the living room is playful chaos, organized madness, yells and screams that belong more to children than a home full of superheroes. 

Yeah, he thinks. He’s being heard.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be 500 words. this is my [tumblr](http://starkravingcap.tumblr.com).


End file.
